I had grown
from the blood—
grown
from that pain,
grown from those
who left me behind that day.
Yet when I grew,
covered in blood, sweat, and tears,
I didn’t realize how tainted I was—
with new fears,
new unimaginable pain,
new illness,
all said to be “framed.”
I grew—
yet they left me broken,
with more blood
that keeps clotting up.
Now my future is clotting—
with that blood,
that regret,
that pain,
that shame
of not speaking up
when I could have—
of leaving myself
with this new pain.
Even though I can’t go back,
this growth
has left me
permanently
changed.

I love genuine music
Seems to me that's what I hear
Crave honesty of the lyrics
They dance into each ear
The way each note dies right on cue
Meticulously placed
I do agree in it's eccentricity
Quality embraced
I declare their songs are just my style
Why I like their voices I don't know
I can tell one thing for certain
Must turn up the audio

The tulip has wilted in a hopelessly unfair...despair,
in a pink powder like weak fragility of partially disappeared shiny lipstick
dry, draggy and clumpy.
Many have been consumed and most have been lived through.
Kissed and drained.
Ornamented crowds have fleeted
and many have been lost
vanished and gone.
Wealth, health and glamour all expired with fleeing memories.
Shiny carnival glasses just hold worn out and deceased bodies leaving spirits aloof
skulls shall now smile inadvertently, not minding the sand running through the neck one hour after another
all the tulips, even the purple ones, have withered

Finding ourselves amidst the confusing harmony ornamented by turns and trills, and wildly alternating loud and quiet notes
the unexpected rhythms travel to unexpected places in a chaotic order through clearly heard melodies of life
phases of the world, shifts...transitions
Transitioned, transitioning, transitions
Anticipated and unanticipated changes
Sometimes sophisticated, suave, and civilized, harmonious streams and passages of flowing strings  
And at times abrupt, aback, shocking and drastic, giant strides
speed up and slow down in awe through
fueling catastrophes of exhaustion,
and all the good notes and colors, and flowers and poems, bottles of good wine amassed  
all pleasures and pains will prevail  
as the red carnations shall never wilt

Collecting sea shells at the shore
rare and exotic with their vibrant colors
regal queen conch shell and cowries
sea shells from the mysterious depths of the ocean connecting the body and the spirit cruising through wandering souls  
when playing death songs on my weeping violin to cry to I bid farewell to all the loved ones  
All the books that have once been read to bring solace and consolation are now dusty and rusty in my mind
Compass… and the dice
Roll the dice and hide
Toll the bell and die

You walk the valley of the blind
and call it wisdom
yet you see nothing.

You drink from envy’s cup,
mouth full of rot,
and still pretend
the flavor isn’t bitter.

Your tongue splits a serpent
forking left, right,
each hand ignorant,
each hand guilty.

You preach love
but every kiss is venom.
You swear honesty
but your breath stinks of deceit.

You sing your holy lies,
choirs choking on righteousness,
but your heart
your blackened, rotting heart
beats only for sin.

I would rather vow silence,
starve to death
on the edge of truth,
than feed on the carrion
of what you serve.

I would rather never sing,
than bury my voice
in the filth of your song.

What is pure?
Where is it hiding?
The scent is gone
nothing left but ash
and the stench of man.

Even the candle of the just,
the brave,
flickers, fades
because oppression laughs,
and the strong
are gagged in chains.

Beneath the red glow of the lanterned flame,
Two dancers meet and set their steps in line.
One keeps the beat as though it were the same
Since first the devil taught him how to shine.

His fire leaps high; the crowd can feel its heat,
Each practiced turn a well-remembered show.
Yet while the rhythm makes his work complete,
The steps have nowhere further left to go.

I move beside him, not to take his place,
But shift the tune to see what else might play.
The floor becomes a wider, stranger space;
We find new shapes in night as well as day.

He holds his ground with admirable grace,
Each pivot strong, each landing firm and true.
Yet I drift outward, testing empty space,
And find fresh patterns blazing into view.

The devil smiles to see such steps unfold,
For heat alone won’t keep his ballroom warm.
The dancer’s art is not just to be bold,
But bend the blaze into another form.

The crowd may cheer the skill they understand,
Applaud the lines they’ve learned to love before;
But some will watch the one who shifts the sand
And wonder what else waits beyond the floor.

When music dies, the truth is sharp and kind:
The dance that grows will outlast any round.
To keep the flame is art of one clear mind,
But greater still to change the shape it’s found.

A drive-in at the edge of time,
its neon humming louder than the stars.
One thing on the menu,
the thing I swore I wanted most.
Infinity stacked on infinity,
the order already written on the slip.

I reach for the tray,
pretending it’s a choice.
But my hunger was calculated years ago,
folded into ads and family scripts,
into the rhythm of bills and debts,
into a father’s silence,
a mother’s instruction,
all of it rehearsed.

Uncertainty—
they call it quantum,
a blur between position and momentum.
But uncertainty lives only in the act of looking.
Particles don’t hesitate;
they march in algebraic procession.
And I am no different:
neurons, traumas, desires,
just more math grinding forward.

The menu watches me back.
Each decision a loop,
each rebellion already anticipated.
Off-menu dreams rerouted,
sold back as neon slogans
on the same cracked sign.

Here is the human cost:
streets of people circling the counter,
mistaking repetition for freedom.
Whole cities of choice collapsing
into prefab inevitability.

And yet—
art mutates.
Sometimes it glows louder,
selling the same meal in brighter colors.
Sometimes it scrawls graffiti on the wall:
there are other kitchens.

Cancer or evolution,
mutation or recursion,
all of it still algebra.
But maybe—
just maybe—
algebra can surprise itself.